


Wheel of Westeros Book Three: Rise of the Raven Part Five

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [27]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon Snow is King in the North, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, The Knight of the Laughing Tree, The Old Gods (ASoIaF), Tourney at Harrenhal, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27253516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Bran visits a sad chapter in Ned Stark's past and begins to learn the story of Jon Snow's birth. Jon and the Freefolk are cast out of Winterfell, but he will not fight his own sister for a crown. Arya heads to the Wall with Gendry, who keeps her warm at night. Bloodraven watches Euron's strange curse fall upon young Griff's court as Arianne and Griff are wed at Dragonstone. Where the Old Gods clash with the Old Gods, danger threatens the heros and opens the door to Bloodraven's power. A little brother is whisked away, and we learn why Satin came to the Wall.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Bran Stark & Samwell Tarly, Euron Greyjoy/Cersei Lannister, Howland Reed & Lyanna Stark & Ned Stark, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Rickon Stark, Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Val, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Young Griff & Bran Stark, Young Griff/Arianne Martell
Series: Wheel of Westeros [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	Wheel of Westeros Book Three: Rise of the Raven Part Five

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Three: Rise of the Raven Part Five**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Bran

Ned Stark is sad, which Bran hates and yet can’t stop seeing. More and more, he can’t escape the sadness of the past, and he’s worried that means the present is sad. _Where are you Bloodraven?_ All he can think is that right now is far, far away from where Bran is and the Raven needs to be. Right now is a ripple left by a drop in a massive, roiling sea. As soon as it’s there, it isn’t, and it’s nowhere to be found.

Father is cleaning and sharpening his sword – not Ice, but the sword he uses in battle. Strange, because there are no more battles left. Bran has been to all of them with his father, over and over. He usually cleans and sharpens before a battle…is there one he’s missed? There is something too slow, too deliberate about the way Father runs the cloth along the blade. His eyes keep drifting away from the steel, out to the east, where a beautiful lady with laughing eyes is both the drop and the ripple. The campfire reflected in Father’s eyes is growing and flickering, and he does not blink. His eyes are ash. _Wouldn’t you like to hold him, my lord,_ the crannogman is saying. Meera’s father sits on a bit of stump near the fire. He balances an infant on his knee. The child is very small, but very strong, and cooing softly. _He’s an awfully good baby…why not come and hold him?_ Ned Stark blinks, but continues cleaning his sword. He picks up a stone and runs it slowly down along the blade. Sorrow in the past smells like clean, gleaming steel.

Bran runs far from his father’s sorrow to another wood at another time. It’s Meera’s father who takes him there. Sometimes in his search for Meera, he finds himself at Greywater Watch, in the marshy woods, in a past where Aunt Lyanna is sharing a secret with Howland Reed. In the false spring, the woods are wet and full of purple and yellow that waves in the breeze and bobs around in the pond. Lyanna and Howland are fishing: Lyanna with a pole, and Howland with a three-pronged spear. Together, they are talking with a mother fox who lives in a grove of gum trees. _I am winning the battle with the wasps_ , she tells them. _You won’t hurt my children will you?_ _Should you share a mudsucker or a crawfish with me, then yes, I will let you pet the top of my head._ The Starks are on their way to the Tourney at Harrenhal, and they will invite the little crannogman to join them, because Lyanna will beg and beg. _Who will I have to talk to? I should be bored senseless._ Lord Rickard’s frown is the shape of a sickle, but in the end, the last thing he wants is Lyanna bored. When Lyanna is idle, trouble is likely, and he figures the little marsh man is harmless enough. Lyanna doesn’t have any friends, other than Father. But Ned Stark and Lyanna Stark aren’t as close as they used to be. In the past, sadness smells like pennyroyal and lily pads. A new friend smells like wet earth and crawfish.

Another woods, another time. Lyanna hunting lonely in the Wolfswood. Three hours she stalks the doe before deciding after all not to shoot the arrow. Something about the way the morning light is reflected in its dark, knowing eyes. Then a gray flash – startling and quick – appears in the corner of her eye. It will not be the first time she has spoken to a creature of the forest. She has trained birds to land on her shoulder, squirrels to eat out of her hand. However, it is the first time she can hear the words of a wolf as clear as a bell. _Come with me, wolf girl._ _Someone is in need of you._ She follows the wolf into a dark corner of the forest where nightshade and poison mushrooms grow. The darkness opens into a clearing surrounded by a circle of fragrant junipers. Lyanna has never seen this clearing before, though she has hunted this part of the wood many times. The wolf is in the center of the clearing, eating a strip of dried venison from the hand of a tiny old woman with tangled grey hair and huge grey eyes. She is dressed in bear fur and deer hide from head to toe, and her smile is wise. _Hello, Lyanna Stark. I am Martha._

Another wood…this one different – all blood red and bone white. It is a grove of weirwood trees larger than Bran has ever seen in all his visions. It is the forest on the Isle of Faces that Meera told him about. The crimson leaves drift down from the branches now and again, though the air is mild, and Bran knows this is the false spring. He looks among the bleeding faces in the trees for the crannogman, flying up, way up, into the biggest tree, in the very center of the island. Its trunk is as big around as ten of the heart tree at Winterfell, and its winding branches span for yards upon yards, heavy enough for a man to sit. The tree overlooks a small pool, so clear it reflects the red canopy above and looks like a pond of blood. Suddenly, two figures run past. One is a small knight in mismatched armor, a grinning weirwood tree on his breastplate. The Knight of the Laughing Tree! So it was Meera’s father…but no, it is not Howland Reed who runs so fast. Behind him comes another man, tall and swift, a prince dressed all in black and red. His sword drawn, he shouts, _stop! Give yourself up and you will not be harmed!_ The prince is close, almost at the Knight’s heels. His helm is off, so his hair waves behind like a silver tail. Then, like so many sparks from a campfire, the Knight of the Laughing Tree floats upward and disappears before the prince’s purple eyes, which cannot believe what they see. The look of bemusement on Rhaegar Targaryen’s face would make Bran laugh if he had a throat and a voice. In the past magic is a gasp of surprise, a lashing silver tail.

_Come closer, Brandon Stark,_ says the fox. Now he sees Meera, but her face fades quickly and there is the crannogman, praying so hard it hurts Bran’s ears somehow. _Old Gods won’t you let this cup pass from me…if you will it, give me a sign._ He is sitting on the ground, and the look he wears turns Bran’s laughter to tears. Howland’s sadness is bone white and blood red. It makes the pool freeze over, and a sudden snow falls all around him. _Very well, if this evil cannot pass unless I drink it…._ What does he mean? What cup? What drink? On the ground, the crannogman’s tears mix with the tears falling from the eyes of the trees.[1]

Chapter 2: The Snow King

“I don’t want her hurt,” Jon said. “Val, I mean it.”

Val was at her candle again. She had drawn a spiral in a mound of salt on the back of her shield, and in the center placed the candle she had made the day they learned they were to give up Winterfell. Jon had watched her with amazement as she mixed the wax with the herbs and roots she carried with her in her pack: white sage, star anise, clove, rue, mugwort, mandrake. Normally it was mixed with tears and a woman’s moon blood as well, but being pregnant, she’d had to get that from Alys of Thenn. Jon couldn’t believe Lady Alys had agreed to it, but he supposed that, as with him, the ways of the Freefolk had rubbed off on her. The same night, Val had made a chain of rue and garlic flowers, and tied it around the part of a mandrake root that looks like a man’s head. On top of its head, Val had affixed a lock of auburn hair. When Jon questioned her, she had made her feelings known.

“Disloyalty and treachery must be punished. If you won’t do what needs to be done…”

“Sansa is acting out of the will of her husband. And Harrold’s will too.”

He gave a half-smile. Jon had suspected Littlefinger’s hold on his sister for some time. For Val, however, it was no laughing matter.

“The North divided won’t hold against the Others. You said it yourself, husband.”

“What is that you’re using to stick that on there?” Jon asked.

Val had smiled and looked at him in a way that let him know exactly where the “glue” had come from. Jon had scolded her half-heartedly, but the following night, Sansa and her retinue were delayed due to the queen’s sore throat. Jon had demanded Val dismantle the doll immediately. Now Val was softly whispering prayers to the Old Gods with the fragrant glow of the candle lighting up her cheeks and lips. She finished whatever prayer she was uttering and then gave Jon a wry look.

“Don’t worry. Your sweet sister is safe. For now.”

“Val…” Jon stood close behind her and sniffed her scalp deeply. Sweat and mink oil, with a little anise and clove mixed in. He wrapped his arms around her enough to get his hands upon her belly, and feel the lumpiness that was their child. He kissed the side of her neck and inhaled all of her scent deeply. Rich smells of bear fur and tallow and spruce flowed into his nostrils. “I need to go now.”

“I know you do,” Val said, sighing. “This is a protection spell.”

Jon never thought he would need such a spell to protect him from his own sister, though it wasn’t the River Lords or the Knights of the Vale that he feared. His enemies were Harrold and Littlefinger’s henchmen. He slept in his breastplate at night, if he slept at all.

Satin and Devan knocked on the door. Jon’s constant companions now, they and Ghost would accompany Jon to the amphitheater. The amphitheater of Greywater Watch was a great wooden platform attached to the north end of the stronghold, with a great hooded roof made of reeds and mud. It was a space in which Ghost could easily fit, for Jon would go nowhere now without his wolf. Lord Howland Reed would be supporting him, as would Alysane Mormont, and Tormund Giantsbane. The Mormonts and Reeds had declared for Jon, as had most of the Freefolk, and many men formerly of the Night’s Watch.

It was early evening when they walked down the planks to the amphitheater, and the sun was rapidly sinking in a purple sky. Jon could hear and smell before they arrived that Sansa stood with Lord Tully the Blackfish and Lord Royce, as well as her ladies, Lady Wylla Manderly, Lord Galbert Glover, and Sandor Clegane. That she had left her husband and her shadow Lord Baelish behind meant, at least, she was earnest when she said she wanted to help him. As they approached, King squawked _King Snow, King Snow_ from his perch on Jon’s shoulder, announcing their arrival.

Sansa looked beautiful in a full-skirted blue gown trimmed with blue feathers, her hair in two thick braids that fell upon each shoulder. Upon her head, she wore a circlet of silver and glass crystals cut to look like icicles. She rose from the bench as Jon entered and welcomed him with a tired, broken voice. “Please sit, Jon,” she said, clearing her throat.

“I’d just as soon stand if it’s all the same to you,” said Jon. _Stand_ , King croaked, _stand_.

Sansa shook her head and looked as if to groan. “Fine then. Can you at least dispense with the bloody bird?”

“I’m afraid not.” King squawked, _Snow! King Snow!_

Sansa sighed. “All right, Jon. Have you made a decision?”

“I have.” Jon reached up to Ghost, who stood beside him, and stroked the fur of his neck to keep him from growling. “I will relinquish Winterfell and depart for the Dreadfort at your request.” Sansa seemed to let out a breath. “But I will not relinquish my crown or bend the knee to you as Queen of the North.”

Sansa flapped her arms in frustration, as she had done as a girl when she didn’t get her way, which hadn’t been often. “I don’t understand this! You said Robb would not have left you the North had he known Bran and Rickon were alive. Futhermore, you know well that he only didn’t leave it to me because I was married to Tyrion Lannister.”

“And now you’re married to Harrold Hardyng.”

“Harrold Arryn. And yes, Rickon’s claim is stronger than mine as a woman and yours as a bastard. Our brother needs a strong hand to protect him. You saved me and you saved our home. I haven’t forgotten that. But at the moment, I have the Vale and the Riverlands, and the Northern Lords.”

“Except for the Reeds and the Mormonts.”

“And the Glovers, your grace…”

Sansa spun around to see Galbart Glover, who had risen and was making his way over to the side of the amphitheater where Jon stood. The low rumble of his voice rattled and echoed. The white fist emblazoned on his breast seemed to clutch the air.

“I am sorry, your grace, but I was at the battle for the Rills,” Glover said. “I saw a man command an army of lizard lions and eagles. The Old Gods have chosen their champion, and I must cast my lot with him.”

That was a surprise as much to Jon as it was to Sansa. Glover had been Jon’s harshest critic since he’d been cast out of the Wall. He had no love for Wildlings, either. Most of the Northern Lords had turned from Jon the moment they heard about the Battle in the Rills. Add to that Jon’s return from the dead, the stories of which had managed to spread despite Jon’s best efforts, and the Lords couldn’t wait to set Jon aside. _This is dark magic_ , he had heard them whispering through walls. _Beastling. Wildling spawn. Demon. Wight. The Night’s King returned. The Children’s vengeance_. The marriage to Val, a Wildling and a “Woods Witch,” not to mention her pregnancy, hadn’t helped.

“I just don’t believe you could do this to me,” Sansa said to Jon tearfully. “Where is the sweet and honorable man I knew?”

_He was murdered at the Wall._ “Sweet and honorable don’t win wars. Unity does.”

“Exactly. So unite with me and let us face our foe together!”

“And what of the Freefolk?”

Sansa couldn’t look at him. She gave off a stink of nervousness and shame – salty and fetid – beneath layers of juniper and rose water. “I’m afraid I cannot allow them beyond the Last River. They must go back north with you to the Dreadfort, where they will pass unmolested as long as you obey.”

Tormund laughed disdainfully before she could finish, which prompted Nestor Royce to step forward with a hand on his sword hilt. “Mind your tongue, Giantsbane! You will show respect to Queen Sansa…”

“Enough, Lord Nestor, please,” Sansa interrupted him. Jon was impressed to see her address Tormund directly. “My Lord Tormund. I know you must think me ungrateful and treacherous, since you so bravely fought for me and my home. Please understand this decision is not made out of any disrespect for your courage and honor, or that of your people.”

“Not _your_ disrespect, anyway,” Tormund said. “I do understand, princess. And just so you understand… I fought for Jon Snow. Not for you.”

“I won’t fight you, Sansa, but I won’t turn my back on my Freefolk warriors and their families,” Jon said. “I will, however, go to the Dreadfort. My war isn’t for Winterfell, or for the North, or any other kingdom. My war is for life itself.” He found he couldn’t look at her, so he looked down at King instead, and gently caressed his feathery breast with a finger as he spoke. “I can only think… that you do this because I failed you. I don’t know how, but I failed you…as a king, and as a brother. Perhaps I haven’t been the brother you hoped for. But I love you always, and I hope you remember that, when we face the end of this world.”

A single tear fell from Sansa’s eye, and she shook her head. “I love you too.”

With that, she turned and left, her entourage following her, their heavy boots banging heavily upon the wooden planks. The Hound was last. As he passed Jon Snow he stopped, and turned to face him.

“I would have given anything to have had a brother like you,”[2] he said, and then walked out with the rest.

When he was gone, Devan asked, “Well, your grace. What next?”

“You can probably leave off ‘your grace’ from now on Dev,” said Jon.

“But you’re my king.”

“King of what?”

“King of Bastards!” Tormund bellowed and clapped Satin hard on the back.

“King of beasts! She-bears and Lizard Lions!” Lord Glover said.

“King of whores and giants,” Satin added. Alysane giggled girlishly.

“The Snow King,” Howland Reed said.

Jon turned to face the Lord of the Crannogmen, who was small in stature and in voice. He was so quiet that most often Jon forgot he was there.

“That’s acceptable,” he said, appreciative.

Lord Reed smiled, and said nothing more.

Chapter 3: Bran

_Look,_ says the fox. _See this parade of broken hearts._

Seeking Meera, Bran finds himself in a warm place full of sun and dry warmth. A soldier is being born away upon a golden bier piled high with white lilies, lilacs and purple pansies. An enormous crowd of Dornish men, women and children watch, weeping – even wailing. The sound of their mourning slices deep into Bran, and for a terrible moment, he believes the dead soldier is his brother Jon. _No,_ says the fox. _Look closer._ The banner flying above features a sword crossed with a fallen star – the Sword of the Morning. This is the funeral of Arthur Dayne, whom his father slew – no, Howland Reed slew. _He stabbed him in the back!_ [3]Bloodraven had taken Bran there, to the place where his father would have died if it weren’t for Howland’s dagger. _I don’t want to enjoy doing this, my lord, but I’m afraid I will very much so_ …Why did Ser Arthur say that? There is a secret here – Ned Stark’s secret. A secret Bran cannot run from forever. From above, he can see the sword, Dawn, placed over his chest.

_Wait…Meera! Meera is there!_ Bran sees her marching slowly, very close to the fallen knight’s corpse, her beautiful dark curls bouncing against her shoulders. But it is not Meera. She wears silk in the purple of House Dayne. Ashara Dayne’s hair is bound up in silver chains with dangling stars. The stars sparkle like her tears. She turns to Bran, seems to see him, speaks to him…but how? _Not here foolish boy. Your love is not here. No love was ever here._ Love in the past is a silver cup from which only fools want to drink.

Now, in a room that smells of sunbaked clay, fresh oranges and hot peppers, Ned has brought Ashara a precious gift. He wants to see her smile so badly that he isn’t thinking clear. He wants to mend his own grief by mending hers. He hasn’t seen the red puddle of Rhaegar’s children yet, the wreckage that will open his eyes. Ned thinks only of Ashara’s eyes, the color of heather upon a dark moor, that twinkle and shimmer like falling stars, and wants the tears that he caused to cease. Ashara’s arms have felt so very empty lately – empty like the crib that never had an occupant, sitting in the corner of a nursery unused. _He’s an awfully good baby_ , Ned says. _You’ll see_. Ashara takes the tiny bundle, wrapped in blankets of grey wool, and begins to cry. _He’s so beautiful._ Her tears are contagious. They fall from Ned’s eyes, and from a third eye looking in any corner for a glimpse of love.

_Beastling. The Children’s Revenge._ _King of whores and giants._

Tears fill the room like a surging flood. Ashara dances in the deluge, cradling the baby Ned has given her but hasn’t given her. Her hair hangs loose, and the baby grabs a fistful of it and puts it into his tiny mouth. She is still in a dressing gown, though it is late in the day. _He did give her a baby_ , Bran knows suddenly, painfully, the knowledge like a hot pepper in an open eye. That baby is not this baby and it is this baby that he is not (for whom a candle burns somewhere… _Val I don’t want her hurt_ ). Ashara kisses the babe’s little head softly. _I will call you Arthur_ , she says.

_You are almost there, Brandon Stark,_ she says.

Ned’s heart is a hot pepper burning. Love in the past is a bier burdened with lilies, a nursery waiting to be filled, a fox with a secret in a dark, dark wood.

Chapter 4: Arya

The plan for the wall was very smart, Gendry agreed. It wouldn’t so much be a wall of fire at first, for an inferno of the type Arya had been picturing might weaken the Wall. The Wall “wept” in warmer temperatures, Jon had told her. Instead, they would build a series of V-shaped structures, creating a wooden zig-zag that spanned for many miles. Some of the wood was from the Forest of Qohor in Essos, sent along by Daenerys Targaryen, with whom Jon had made a deal. That wood was already cut into boards, and would be used to make the base. Then they would take logs cut in short lengths, and line the insides of every V. At the bottom, they would use kindling and tallow to start a fire that would slowly burn through the logs at the bottom. When the logs at the bottom burned, the next log would roll down to replace theem.[4] Once it was built, all that was needed was to keep the bottom fires going and replace the logs at the top. Huge bundles of tinder made from dry pine needles, raw wool, tallow, straw and dried reeds or cattails would be thrown into each V when the time came, and the wildfire applied. It would be a sight to see for sure, though Arya hoped they’d never have to see it.

Once the final plans were delivered to the foreman and the existence of the wights proven for the benefit of young Griff, Arya would turn back and go south to the Crossroads Inn until Jon had Winterfell again. She was riding north with Gendry, Mya Stone, and a brute of a man called Frank Flowers, who was almost but not quite as ugly as the Hound. He was less surly than the Hound however, and though Arya didn’t really trust him, she did like him. He had a giant belly, though it didn’t seem to slow him down, and a missing ear, though he seemed to hear well enough. He was once a man of the Golden Company, now a sworn knight for young Griff. He had asked Gendry to accompany them to the Wall, and made no secret out of the reason.

Arya was trying not to think about Sansa, but the urge to verbally torch her was hard to resist. She hadn’t said goodbye to her sister the day they left, and what with everything going on, she wasn’t sure Sansa was even aware of her plans to leave in the first place. The Freefolk were being exiled North, thanks to Sansa, and in a way Arya wished she could stick around and see what happened once all these cowardly cunts understood what it meant to have to rebuild Winterfell without the extra help. Did Sansa really think people from the Riverlands and the Vale would come to the frozen North and lend their Southron hands?

“If they tried, could they even last?” Arya had sputtered as they began the journey. “Good luck running that bloody castle without me. Without Jon and his people.”

She grumped for nearly an hour before Gendry finally said, “So tell me, my lady. You aren’t by any chance angry at your sister and the Northern Lords? I couldn’t quite tell…”

“All right, all right,” she had said.

She managed to stay quiet for much of the ride, her own bitterness gathering on her tongue like pus from a boil. It was fully dark when she decided they should stop and camp.

“This sentinel stand looks like the place,” she said, leaning over to spit, marking the spot.

“Thank the Lord of Light for that,” Franklyn Flowers groaned. “My arse is frozen to this horse!”[5] He was a convert to Rh’llor, as Sansa was too apparently. Arya couldn’t blame her for that, however. The Old Gods and the Seven had never answered their prayers – perhaps this Red God would. Arya didn’t count on it, though.

They blanketed the horses before building a nice, hot fire. Gendry was masterful at keeping the fire at the exact right temperature, which was not surprising, given his years as a blacksmith. He wasn’t a bad cook either. They enjoyed a mess of trout taken from the river, cooked on spits and drizzled with melted bacon fat – a last feast before they would be living on squirrel meat. At least at the Wall they might get some venison. Whatever they ate, Gendry could get the fire exactly right. Out of skins, they drank excellent wine stolen from Winterfell – something of a final “fuck you” to the Queen in the North before leaving.

“What are those children going to do while you’re away,” Arya asked of the orphans at the Crossroads Inn.

“I left them in good hands…I think,” Gendry said. “Miss ‘em though. I tell you I never thought I would.”

“And you think Thoros of Myr is ‘good hands’?”

“Not just Thoros. There’s Anguy. And Watty…lot of good men. Men I trust. If they weren’t good men, they would have stayed with…” He stopped.

“You can say it, Gendry. I’m a big girl,” Arya said, though she’d be lying to say it didn’t hurt. “Catelyn Stark is gone.” She spoke to Mya and Frank, to make it clear. “But I’m still here.”

“To the pack,” Frank said, raising a skin as if it were a cup. “Lord be damned if you aren’t hard to kill.”

They built a shelter of pine boughs to cut the wind before bedding down for the night in a single tent, and Arya was again thankful for Frank, whose huge body gave off incredible heat. The snoring could be done without, however. Arya snuggled tight under firs with Mya, who was as skinny as she. In the middle of the night, however, Arya actually began to feel too hot. She had been running through the Westerlands, hunting with her pack. They took down a massive buck, ripping it open and gorging on the flesh and entrails until her fur was red with its blood. With the taste of it in her mouth, Arya awoke and peeled away from Mya. She spied Gendry’s shadow through the tent sitting by the fire. Bundling Mya up as much as possible with furs, she pulled on her boats and cloak and went out to join him.

“Got some more wine?” Arya asked quietly as she sat down next to him.

“Got some heated up, too.” Gendry smiled. In the fire, the blue of his eyes seemed deeper, his skin more golden. He wore no cap, but he really didn’t need to – his black shock of thick hair kept his skull plenty warm to be sure. He was shivering though, so Arya pull half of her cloak up around him.

He asked her, “Couldn’t you sleep?”

She had told him about her wolf dreams, and how when the moon was full, she had trouble sleeping, but that wasn’t the case this time. “I got too hot is all…and I wanted to talk to you alone.”

“I wanted to talk with you too. Hard to get away from…” He motioned with his head, indicating Frank, who hadn’t give him a foot of space since they left the Inn. Frank’s eyes were Griff’s eyes.

“I’ve thought about you. A lot,” Arya said. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I saw you at the Inn. I’m…I was just scared I might never see you again.”

Gendry sighed and wrapped an arm around her middle, holding her tight. “Look…I know we can defeat the Others…I mean I know we will, but…if we don’t make it, I want you to know…”

“I know.”

“I love you.” Gendry let out a breath that he must have been holding.

Arya turned her head and put a hand on his face, feeling the soft fullness of his beard. She kissed him long and tender, licking gently at the insides of his lips.

Very softly, with his forehead pressed against Arya’s, Gendry whispered, “I want to serve Jon. I want to serve your brother. This Griff…I don’t know him…”

“Shhhhh, dummy,” Arya said, and closed his mouth with hers. His tongue was very warm, and he moaned ever so quietly as they kissed. Gendry pulled Arya into him with both gigantic arms, until she felt entirely lost in them. Her hands searched for his belt. They left it where they had been sitting and moved to the other side of the fire in hushed, hurried motions. Gendry made a pile of all the furs he had brought, and threw another log on the fire so that it would rise and act as a barrier. Arya dove onto the furs and opened the cloak again for Gendry. The furs were soft and heated by the fire, and soon the lovers were both wrapped blissfully in the comfort and fuzziness of the cloak and the wine and each other’s arms. Fingers loosened and removed jerkins, tunics and mail. Breeches and smallclothes were gathered around ankles (as they left their boots on.) Gendry’s body was so very, very warm. Arya explored the muscles of his arms and chest as she kissed him, marveling at how something human could be so hard. The muscles of his backside tensed at her touch, and Gendry let out a low gasp. He fondled her small breasts gently, cupping them in his huge palms, then moving down over the curve of her hip and then between her thighs. The slightest pressure from his fingers, and Arya was whining, almost like a wolf pup. Her hands followed the downy black hairs from his breastbone, down past his navel, and to the thicket of hair in which his cock was rooted. It was silly, she knew, but she was afraid to touch it.

“Arya, I want you…”

“Shhhhhhhh…”

He sucked softly on the skin of her neck, his breath warming her. In her ear, so close, barely audible, “Are you ready?”

Arya couldn’t find words, so she just nodded. She remembered that she had only been with a man as Mercy. Her heart was pounding so hard – she could feel it everywhere: her scalp, her nipples, her cunt. She took a breath and slung her arms about Gendry’s strong shoulders, pulling him on top of her. Her legs opened wide and she invited him in, expecting it to hurt, but it didn’t. She only felt a glorious fullness and an explosive tingle that gathered like a storm in her belly and thighs. She opened her eyes and watched as his hips rubbed against hers in rhythm with the crackling of the fire. She tried to remain quiet, but his cock sliding in and out of her, hard as marble, and the low grunting noises he made, like a rutting stag, were too delightful. A sound like _Oooooooohhh_ rolled out from her throat, and she stifled it by closing her mouth over Gendry’s collarbone. He thrust deeper and deeper, and Arya placed her hand below to clutch his buns as they rose and fell faster than before. Her own hips bucked suddenly and uncontrollably as she came, unintentionally biting down as she did. _Arya, Arya…ow…owwww._ The muscles of Gendry’s back jerked twice, and came to a halt. Arya licked a trickle of blood from her lips.

After a quiet moment, with Gendry still inside her, she asked, “Did I hurt you?”

“It’s all right,” he said, pulling himself from her and then lying against her, nuzzling her hair softly. Arya ran her fingers through his beard and looked up above, where the stars shone through the tops of the pines. She felt like howling, like calling to her pack – but she didn’t dare wake the others.

Chapter 5: The Raven

Daytime will grow short in the kingdoms. My time has come.

It was probably the earliest-held wedding the Seven Kingdoms had ever known. Griff, dressed in scarlet with black trim, married early in the morning as the first snow fell upon Dragonstone, glowing like sparks in the nectarine light of the sunrise. He placed the cloak upon Arianne’s shoulders just as Winter threw his mantle over the world. Arianne looked so lovely I almost forgot that I despise weddings. Her dress was bright strawberry red samite, the bodice embroidered with sunburst and fire, and the skirt made of so many folds it seemed to utter whispered laughter whenever she moved. Her shoulders were bare, and a heap of gold hung around her neck: dragons and snakes intertwined. Her dark hair was crowned with a headdress of gold made to look like the sun with many radiating spears shot through it. The moment the couple kissed, a beam of light struck it and blinded everyone – rows of yawning Dornishmen blinking. Spots danced before my eyes, and I thought I saw Quaithe.

The Storm Lords in attendance are prickly with anxiety, for the enemy has landed. The flash of Sansa’s hand mirror. Euron’s Deep Ones slithering upon the Stormlands. Cersei mad enough to burn a city. A beast tyrant at the Dreadfort. Perfect balance into perfect chaos. _You would be proud my love_. But there is another wedding…black and gold. Kraken has joined with the dowager lioness and not her cub? What are you at Euron Crow’s Eye? Why Cersei? It doesn’t make sense, Griff said, and he’s right. Squid ink has kept my third eye from seeing what the Lord of Pyke is up to. Something to do with blood drinkers and Trystane Martell.

When Ser Mortimer’s body was not where they left it in the stream, Tarly had suggested a careful search of every ship, but Griff and Duck limited the search the search to the banks of the stream and the Kingswood nearby. Surely, some animal had taken off with him, or he had floated downstream into the sea. _You know nothing, young Griff._

“Ser Mortimer is hidden among the cargo on your ship Meraxes. He’s very dangerous,” I said.

“You’re telling me that Morty is alive? Lord Tarly pronounced him well and dead,” Griff said, flustered. His visit with Daenerys made him scatter-brained and nervous.

“He’s not alive, your grace.”

“If he’s not alive how can he be hiding on my ship? You know, Bran, I think you talk this way deliberately to confuse me. I don’t appreciate it.”

“If I may, your grace,” Sam Tarly said. “I think the ship should be searched by armed men. If Bran is right, and I think he may be, we must kill Ser Mortimer. But it has to be done correctly. If you do not…”

“ _Correctly_ kill a knight of my Kingsguard? What is _correctly_ , pray tell?”

“Well you must use a wooden spear, very sharp, and…”

“Enough!” Griff said. “I wasn’t serious you _maniac_! From now on, you Brandon Stark, and you Samwell Tarly, are not allowed to converse at all without another person present, is that understood?”

“Your grace,” Tarly sputtered. “We haven’t…”

“I don’t know what your interest is in this business with the Starks, but it ends now.”

Poor confused Tarly obeyed nervously, and watched fretting as Trystane Martell and his retinue boarded the ship. There was no time to take an oak branch and turn it into a weapon, and iron would not work, as poor Trystane would soon find out.

Samwell Tarly knows plenty that his isn’t saying, but it is not what Griff thinks. He hides what he knows, because Griff cannot keep a heretic as a maester, and Dragonstone (until now) is safe for Gilly and little Aemon. This blood-drinking curse is of the Old Gods, and the answers are in books long hidden by the Archmaesters of the Citadel. Secrets kept in the interest of the Seven. As long as the people kept the faith, the Archmaesters kept control of the people. In their quest for power, they sowed their own destruction. The Old Gods will return, and only the Old Gods can hope to fight them. Val made the horn whole again as she made Jon Snow whole again, but she did not tell anyone where it was hidden. In a hidden compartment among her witch’s herbs and poisons, the end of the Wall lay silent. Sam said his vow at a heart tree, and now he knows many of its secrets, but some of its tales are still being told.

Trystane’s tale of what happened turned Griff lily white. Thrice they skewered poor Morty Boggs with their Dornish spears, and the undead knight hardly slowed. He managed to rip apart two guards and lay into Trystane’s throat, draining him of two pints before a burning sconce finally drove him overboard. Tremors wracked poor Trystane, whose eyes had gone dark with terror. His skin was clammy and his neck was full of punctures and bruising. Tarly ordered him to bed, and advised that he lock his door and open no windows, especially at night. The Dornish youth did not drink the monster’s blood…yet.

Aware (again) of looking foolish, Griff allowed Samwell to explain what he had been trying to since Morty had come back from Oldtown.

“Is there no cure?” Griff asked.

“It’s not a disease…it’s a spell. But it passes from one man to another the way a disease might,” Tarly said. He clutched a couple of very old books in his arms – _Ancient Creatures and Spells_ and _The Vampyr._

“Is there nothing we can do for him?” Arianne asked tearfully. This was supposed to be the happiest time of her life, she was thinking. Why does everything have to go wrong? _You know nothing Arianne, princess of Dorne._

“As long as Prince Trystane does not drink Ser Mortimer’s blood, the spell will not take hold,” said Samwell. “I’ve killed many a blood drinker, it’s true. I must warn you that whenever a vampyr dies, it’s never a pretty sight. No two of them die the same way. Some scream and groan, others go quietly. Some explode, some implode – but they will all try to take you with them.”[6]

Arianne burst into tears, and Griff pulled her to him and held her tight, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry princess,” Samwell said. “I’m sure the wedding will be fine. Just as long as you end the festivities before nightfall…”

The feast, in fact, was over at noon, followed by an afternoon bedding. At the same time, I felt the North cry out. Cregan Karstark. A confusion after Jon’s murder. Val put him back together. Cregan escaped! Too far away. Nothing to be done for your beloved brother. A hidden compartment. Dried rue and anise. _I must not tell him._

Secrets like blood in your veins.

Chapter 6: The Feral Pup

Raw meat is good. Cooked meat is better. Our brothers never took us hunting before now. At night, we go hunting alone. We go into the woods and get rabbit and squirrel. Sometimes deer. Sometimes birds like crows and jays. When we hunt in castles, we usually just get rats and mice. We are better in the woods. But even a rat is better than nothing. Cooked meat is better than raw. That’s what Osha says. If we aren’t too hungry, we let her take the food from us and heat it in the fire. The fire warms our fur so we can sleep. Most times, we bite her if she tries to take it. But our brothers won’t let us bite them. If we growl at them, they aren’t afraid. We get a nip on the shoulder for it, but if we bit them, they’d do worse. Our brother is white with red eyes and can see the future. Our brother is black with grey eyes and knows how to talk to shadowcats. The first time, when they came, they ran so fast toward us that we froze, ready to fight. But they picked up us and swung us in the air and squeezed us so hard. They jumped and sprang. We yipped and ran in circles. Our brothers smell like marshwater, and woodfire and girlskin. Their kisses smell like ale. Their kisses smell like river trout. One night, our brothers brought us a pheasant to eat. They had plucked it and cooked it by a fire outside where we sleep. Our brothers sleep outside too. Our brothers sleep inside with a woman like we do too. Osha smells like pine sap and mushrooms. Baby monster smells like sour milk. He’s getting so big that Osha is glad when our brothers’ mate promises to help.

_I never told you why I ended up at the Wall. It was Tywin Lannister. His men came to the Horn of Plenty…that was the place where I was born. To this day, I don’t know what it was about. We paid all our taxes…_

There’s a queen in the castle and she says we can go home. Home is in the woods. Home is in the fur of our hip. Home is father and mother and Robb, but they are gone. We don’t have a home. We remember warm stone. We remember grey and white. _I can’t go home with you_ , our brothers say. _But I can take you home with me_. They handed us a piece of the pheasant’s breast very carefully. We did not bite them. We took it and ate it and when that was done, we took and ate some more. They pulled us into their arms again: warm fur, the sound of two hearts. Our brothers have a mighty pack. There are bears in the pack and lizard lions. There are mammoths and giants and boars and too many smells to think. There are black brothers in the pack. The night we leave, Satin tells our brothers a story. Satin smells like lavender and leather and butter. Our brothers ride on horses, but we ride together. Horses don’t like us. We leave instead of hunting because we must ride at night. We must ride at night so the queen doesn’t know. The queen smells like winter roses and salt and cool rocks. _We are going to the Dreadfort,_ our brothers say. _Don’t be afraid, little brother_.

_At the Horn, I did a sort of dance routine. Not really dancing. It was called dance of the snake boy. They painted me all over like to have scales, like a snake. Then they put me in a big basket. Then I sort of like slither out of it. I was in the middle of the snake boy dance when they came._

In the morning, we are sick of riding. We are sick of cold and we are hungry. We hate all the horses and the way our ears feel. We stop. Osha tries to make us go, but we growl at her until she gives up. But then our brothers come. We cry but we don’t bite. We can’t bite our brothers because they are very dangerous. Our brothers are killers. Our whole pack are killers. Our brothers take us on their horse and wrap us in furs. Pretty soon we fall asleep with their hearts beating in our ears. Our brothers have a black friend called Satin, and he tells a story that makes us have strange dreams. _They grabbed me when I was naked, and put a dagger to my balls. What would you have, they asked? Go to the Wall or lose your balls? Of course I screamed “the wall” over and over, but for a moment I thought they didn’t hear me. I still have nightmares about it, only in my dreams, they cut me…_

We wake up hungry with baby monster crying. Our brothers’ mate holds him and rocks him, the way our mother used to do with us. Our brothers’ mate is very warm and smells like oat cakes and ashes and wet autumn leaves. Raw meat is good, but cooked meat is better. Good night bears. Good night lizard lions. Good night giants. Good night queens. Good night shadowcats. Good night dead men.

[1] Matthew 26:36-56, Jesus’s prayer in the garden.

[2] Weiner, Matthew. _Mad Men_ , Season 1, Episode 9: “Shoot,” AMC, 2007.

[3] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss, _Game of Thrones_ , Season 6, Episode 3: “Oathbreaker,” HBO, 2016.

[4] Hansler, Bob. “Self-Feeding Fire,” Youtube, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ejfSv3raPDo

[5] Feldman, Dennis. _The Golden Child_ , Paramount, 1986.

[6] Schumacher, Joel. _The Lost Boys_ , Warner Bros., 1987.

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing in a limited POV style like Martin's, which is a suffocating way to write. I have thought of a lot of neat scenes that don't fit into the POV limits I set for myself, or don't move the story along quickly enough to include in the series. I will write these out if someone requests it. If you like this story, and would like to see a scene that got skipped or glossed over, OR that is in the POV of someone who is not a Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Greyjoy, or Lannister, let me know what you'd like to see, and I will make a Wheel of Westeros B-side out of it.


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